


Like Stones We Bleed

by CruciatusForeplay



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29809728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CruciatusForeplay/pseuds/CruciatusForeplay
Summary: In a world where your soulmate's words are written on your skin, a spy knows there is value in secrets.~Clint, Bucky and Natasha feel the pull of fate.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 14
Kudos: 43
Collections: Poly Armory Tropes and AUs, Trope is in the Air





	Like Stones We Bleed

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the lovely discords for encouraging me to write and providing me with this challenge. I've listed my trope/AU in the end notes. 
> 
> Big shout-out to Bekala for holding my hand through my first time writing soulmates and supporting me as I hurt my darlings, as well as beta-reading for me.

**Location:** **_Budapest_ **

**Date:** **_15th September 2007_**

 **Time:** **_4:52pm_**

Natalia was 24 when she heard her words.

She was facing a combatant operative, an arrow pressed to her throat and words that she hadn't thought she would live long enough to hear had come from the mouth of this man. 

Natalia was tired.

***

Natalia was never supposed to have known her words. They were a distraction from a Widow's allegiance to her motherland. A widow's loyalty to her country cannot be split, and love is an unacceptable distraction. Her work would be too important for her to have a soulmate.

She was 14 when her words came through. The itching started on a Tuesday afternoon and Natalia had not reported it. She had known she was meant to. It was the kind of itch that hurt with the need to be scratched. 

Natalia was good at not letting discomfort show. She kept her hands relaxed and her face blank, continuing with her task. By the time she was able to shut herself in the bathroom the urge to dig her nails into her side was painful. It felt like fire in her skin. She locked the cubicle and took several deep breaths. 

If she gave into the urge now, she would lose her chance. Her nails would raise red lines across the skin. She lifted her T-shirt and carefully inspected the pale flesh across her ribs. The ghost of her words was just barely visible, pink dots pressing through her skin where her words would bloom within hours. 

She worked quickly to make out the letters, the words, _her words_. She knew them now. Natalia returned to her classroom. 

She allowed 43 minutes to pass, before she very carefully pretended to be absorbed in her work and let her hand drift to her ribs. She allowed herself three scratches as if the urge was still young, then feigned surprise at her own actions as she'd seen her sisters do. 

She alerted her instructor, who nodded curtly once, asked Natalia to follow her and on arrival at the medical wing injected her with a sedative. 

When Natalia woke, she had a small bandage pressed to her ribs, under which she knew there was a thin scar where her words should have been. 

She closed her eyes and pictured the words her body would never carry. 

***

Natalia was 22 when she had defected from the Red Room. She had followed the directive to kill her sister, cleaned up as instructed, and left without orders. 

She took wet work where she could find it, and had been travelling constantly. Running constantly. They hunted her for two years, but they had trained her exceptionally well and she'd only had one close call. Until now. 

Natalia was tired. 

Tired enough that she was making mistakes. Tired enough that an arrow was now pressing into her skin. Tired enough that she found the threat of it comforting. He spoke in Russian; good Russian, though not native.

“You deserve a choice.”

Her ribs burned briefly, like fireworks in the sky. Natalia replied without thinking, words spilling out of her. 

“Oh, like an arrow through the throat, or an arrow through the heart?”

She watched him very carefully for a reaction. His face was hard, dirt streaked over his skin, his features looked harsh and severe. He gave no indication that he noticed her saying his words. Two could play at that. She kept her face blank.

“I was hoping for something less messy,” he said. 

“Your Russian is terrible,” she lied in perfect, unaccented American. He smiled ruefully at her and it drained her enthusiasm for the jab. He switched to English. 

“Look, I’m going to lower this,” he indicated the bow. “If you don’t immediately kill me, we can have a chat about your options.”

He waited, his blue eyes felt intense on her. Natalia briefly contemplated how many people were killed by their soulmate. It seemed oddly fitting. She blinked once, slowly, like a cat. He moved and the sharp point against her throat disappeared. He hadn’t killed her. She offered him the same courtesy and did not strangle him using his own bow despite the ample opportunity to do so. He rolled his wrists and then his shoulders. Natalia heard the joints crackle. She wrinkled her nose to show her distaste. 

He grinned at her. It changed his face into something younger, someone beautiful. He licked his lips and Natalia did not track the movement, though the urge prickled at her. 

“I’m Clint Barton, or Hawkeye, but you already know that.” He paused as if he was waiting for her to contradict him. She thought he was being stupid. She ensured her face conveyed exactly how stupid. He barked a surprised laugh and Natalia immediately felt irritated that she liked it. His body had formed long, relaxed lines like he wasn’t in a room with someone who could kill him in the blink of an eye. He continued talking, “So, then you also know that I work for Shield and that I was sent here for you, with a kill order.” 

He paused again and she looked pointedly at his discarded bow, then at him, raising an eyebrow. He huffed a laugh and despite herself she wanted to smile with him. She had not wanted to like him. 

“Yeah, so I was thinking, maybe you’d like another option. One where I don’t kill you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. She knew who he was: she'd read his file, she'd done her research. He was a skilled killer and valued agent. He was not someone to shy away from finishing the job. He didn’t want to kill his soulmate. Natalia supposed it was reasonable, but anger bubbled in her chest.

He reached his hand up to scratch at his neck. His words curled out under his sleeve, shifting with the muscles of his bicep. 

Her first thought was that it was careless to allow your words to be seen so easily. Her second was that those were not the words she had said to him. 

They weren't even in the right language. She forced her eyes away before he could notice her looking. Her throat felt tight. 

She may have always known her words, but they were taken before they'd settled. She hadn't ever expected to hear them. She supposed it shouldn't be a surprise that she was a mismatch. 

It was rare, but not unheard of that someone would have the words of a person who didn't have theirs. In most cases the other person would meet their real soulmate and the mismatch would go on without. 

Natalia always knew that she wouldn’t have this. She didn’t have words, even if she knew them. Even if she’d felt their absence burn when he spoke. Natalia knew this wasn’t for her, would never be for her. She had not lived a life that allowed for love, much less one that deserved it. She had always known this. She had made her peace with this. 

He spoke again. She forced herself to focus on what he was saying. He offered her Shield employment, a chance to do good, an opportunity to live, a life worth something. A choice. She listened over the sound of her pulse pounding in her ears. 

Natalia was filled with a bone deep desire to scream. 

“Why?” She spat the word out like bad food. He looked at her. She felt wild, untethered. It didn’t make any sense. She was nothing to him. 

“I once thought I was in too deep to do anything except give myself over to the dark. Someone saw something worth saving and showed me a way out. Sometimes people need a choice.”

She thought of his voice rolling over her, the burn on her ribs. She pressed down the thought that it had felt _right_. She had never wanted a soulmate. 

She looked at him. He was so earnest. She would never have imagined him to be suited to her, but she could see why they might once have been thought a match. He was going to be perfect for someone. He was brimming with good and Natalia silently thanked fate that he had not been tied to her. He deserved a soulmate who was not so steeped in death. Someone who could love him. Natalia knew that was not something she could give. Softness had been beaten from her bones, and love was for children. 

There was no need for him to ever know that he had said her words. It was better this way. It had never meant anything to her. Fate had chosen wisely in giving him another. 

It was ash in her mouth, but maybe if she kept saying it, it would be true. 

Natalia looked at him. He had said her words. They might not be soulmates, but he had said her words, and she was going to keep him. 

“Okay.” She held his gaze until he blinked. 

"Alright then," he flashed her another grin. "Let's get this show on the road."

**Location:** **_Odessa_ **

**Date:** **_3rd April 2009_ **

**Time:** **_1:21pm_ **

The asset stands on a coastal roadside in Ukraine.

Mission: elimination of the target by any means necessary. Target is in the custody of Shield. Target is under the protection of former Red Room operative Natalia Romanova; alias: Natasha Romanoff; alias: Black Widow. Black Widow status: hostile and dangerous, currently driving approaching unmarked vehicle. Target status: visual confirmed within approaching unmarked vehicle. 

The asset shoots twice in short succession. Both bullets hit tires as intended. The vehicle careens off the road and over the cliff edge. The asset crosses the road and observes the vehicle falling into the water below.

Target status: unknown. The asset descends the cliff in order to ascertain target status. The Black Widow emerges from the water with the target. She sees him and is effectively protecting the target. The asset aims to kill. The Widow speaks.

"You don't want to do this."

Something burns in the asset's mind. The words have triggered an override. New mission parameters. No fatal action can be taken against the Widow. Original mission parameters remain unchanged. 

The Widow is still in front of the target. Engaging in hand to hand combat would endanger the new mission parameters. Her position impedes original mission parameters. The asset can hear an incoming quinjet. Intel suggests it is Shield operated. The asset is not currently visible to the incoming quinjet. 

The asset adjusts the aim and shoots. The Widow clutches her stomach and behind her the target falls dead. The Widow bleeds over her hands. She is unconscious. The wound will receive imminent medical attention from the incoming quinjet. It will not be fatal. The asset shoots the target once more in the head and leaves. 

Mission status: complete. 

**Location:** **_Bucharest_ **

**Date:** **_27th October 2014_ **

**Time:** **_5:17am_ **

Bucky woke gasping. His hands shook and he was cold with sweat. He reached for the newest blue notebook. 

He wished for a time when dreams were just dreams and not memories. He fumbled for his pen and began to write. He was practiced at this and didn't have to think. His fingers curled words into existence on the page.

Bucky set down the pen and stared at the notebook. He looked at the Widow's words on his page. He stared at those same words on his right forearm. He tried very hard not to think about how he had shot his soulmate. 

Bucky took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that welled up in them. They spilled onto his cheeks anyway. 

_Fuck_. 

It'd been almost eight months since the helicarriers had fallen out of the sky with him on them. Eight months since he'd started waking up with memories flowing through his fingers. Eight months of figuring out how to exist in his skin, in his head, in this world. Eight months of trying to learn how to live. 

When Bucky lied to himself he would say that he hadn't given his soulmate a lot of thought since he started dreaming himself back after DC. When he didn't lie he mostly hoped he'd been a mismatch. He hoped whoever had been destined to say his words found happiness with someone else, that they hadn't spent their life waiting for him, that they'd never known he had their words on his skin. 

Plenty of people lived happy and fulfilling lives without their soulmates, and plenty more were miserable with them. Some people said that there were events that interfered with fate, and changed the course of soulmates. Bucky had never been too sure about that. He'd mostly just reckoned that nothing was ever perfect and if you wanted something bad enough you had to work for it, whether or not fate pointed a suggestion in your direction. 

Since waking up with the image of the Widow's pained face as she crumbled around her bullet wound etched into his mind, he'd been less sure what to think. If there were events that changed the course of fate, Bucky would be fairly willing to guess that putting a bullet through the stomach of your soulmate might make the list. He reckoned 70 years of murdering and brainwashing might also screw around with fate's big ideas. 

Bucky took a deep breath and tried to push the images away. He needed a distraction. He stood up and took another breath. He could feel his heart beating too fast. He let the part of his brain that never stopped looking for threats take over. It was a different kind of loud, an insistent background noise that he could never fully tune out, and he let himself get lost in the repetition of its demands. 

His feet walked him around the apartment to do a full perimeter check. He checked that all his traps were still in place and untouched. He did a full sweep for bugs. The movements were reassuring in their familiarity. Deep in his chest, he felt exhausted; more than that though, he felt alone. 

The Winter Soldier was designed to pass through spaces unseen, to blend at every opportunity, and to stay in the shadows. It was an existence built for surviving, not for living. He moved often, squatted in abandoned buildings, and worked hard to be easily forgotten. His life was set up to keep him out of reach from the people who sought him out. It was not conducive to combating isolation.

Bucky knew he couldn't risk forming attachments. He spent time trying to make his own company more bearable. He learned that nutrition could also be nurturing; that food could be enjoyed. He spent a lot of time learning how to speak to people again, mostly in cafés and markets. He was getting better at it. He watched carefully to find the right ways to smile, and sometimes his smiles surprised him by being real. It was a useful skill, and a pleasant feeling. He pretended it was not practice, that it was not hope. It was too fragile.

Hydra had taken a great deal, but Bucky was clawing pieces of himself back. He was not letting them win. He sat on his floor and brought out his weapons, one at a time, and cleaned them. This was work his fingers remembered from before, from the war. There was a bloodied kind of peace to it. It made him think of having people close. He thought of the Widow; he thought of his words on her lips. His fingers worked on the blade in his hands. He thought of her face as she fell to the ground, red pouring over her fingers. He thought of the many things Hydra had taken that he would never get back. He thought she might be one of them.

***

Bucky hadn't really meant to look for her. 

It started as a simple curiosity: what information was available on the Widow, where was she, how did she live. His brain informed him that this information could be crucial for survival at a later stage; soulmates were weak points. 

Looking for the Black Widow wasn't an easy thing to do. Bucky suspected it was particularly tricky because the last thing he'd done was shoot her. The odds that she was eagerly awaiting his call were slim. It was slow work over months, but it was a thing to do.

In theory the massive data dump from DC should have been helpful, except it meant she'd started completely afresh on all her covers leaving Bucky with almost no intel. Almost. 

All available research indicated a close relationship with her fellow Avenger Clint Barton. Barton was considerably easier to track. 

Which was how Bucky ended up at a small archery range in Bed-Stuy. It was late, after hours and the building was dark. Bucky picked the lock and walked in. The reception was deserted. Empty chairs, open lockers and cheerful informative leaflets about archery events littered the place. It had the chaotic air of a space that often inhabits children and as a result is never fully tidied. The door to the shooting lanes had a window and the light from it cast long shadows over the desk. 

Bucky walked over, pulled open the door and stopped short. Barton stood at the far end of the range. He was wearing a sleeveless top; it had a rough asymmetry that implied the sleeves had been removed using kitchen scissors and was tight enough that Bucky immediately suspected Barton hadn't been the original owner. It shouldn't have worked, but the way his muscles pulled and bunched under the fabric was mesmerising. Bucky was filled with a new feeling: an urge to touch, to feel that body shift under his hands. 

Barton plucked arrow after arrow from his quiver, drawing the string and loosing them, every one hitting their targets in succession. The room was filled with the dull rhythmical thunking of arrows finding their new home. Sweat beaded at his hairline and gathered on his shirt, darkening the fabric. Barton's lips pursed slightly in concentration and his whole body carried an intensity that Bucky couldn't look away from. 

Bucky suddenly became aware that at some point he'd stopped breathing. He drew in a breath, much louder than he'd intended, and found himself the focus of all that intensity. 

Barton turned on the spot and was aiming his arrow directly at Bucky. Bucky swallowed. 

He instinctively knew at least seven ways he could move in time if Barton released the arrow to ensure a non lethal hit. From this distance, all but one would still involve taking the arrow somewhere lower priority. He didn't think he'd ever been shot with an arrow and he was looking to keep it that way. Bucky stood very still. 

Barton adjusted his stance very slightly, his gaze never leaving Bucky. His blue eyes burned into Bucky's skin, a flicker of recognition passing over Clint's face when his eyes moved over Bucky's metal arm. His aim never faltered. 

Bucky's brain did the calculations without his input: based on the speed that the arrows had been hitting their targets, he'd been supplied with a draw weight. It was an obscenely high number. Barton was unenhanced according to all intel. His muscles never even shook. 

Bucky licked his lips without thinking, and watched as Barton tracked the movement. Barton's eyes flicked up and held Bucky's. Bucky silently drew a breath.

"It's not polite to break in. What are you doing here?" Barton's voice was rich, but it had a hard edge. This was a demand. Bucky looked at Barton's face. He didn't mean to smile, but one tugged at his lips and warmth swirled at the bottom of his ribs.

"I was waiting for you."

A tiny shiver ran through Barton and he gasped softly. He took a half step towards Bucky, and the bow shook minutely. Barton's face immediately softened to something open, almost vulnerable. When he spoke it was quieter, verging on reverent. 

"Those are my words. You said my words."

Bucky's stomach dropped. This had been a mistake.

**Location:** **_New York_ **

**Date:** **_7th June 2015_ **

**Time:** **_11.47pm_ **

Clint took another half step forward. He realized he was still aiming his arrow at him, and tried to abort the motion. He kept the arrow nocked, but lowered the bow. He might be facing his soulmate, but he was also facing the Winter Soldier, and Clint wasn't an idiot. 

He kind of felt like one though. Clint knew there was a soft smile on his face, and Nat would scold him for giving it all away so easily. Clint felt like he might float away. He'd never really admitted how much he wanted this. He couldn't stop smiling. The Winter Soldier - Barnes, Clint remembered - still hadn't moved. 

Clint stepped towards him.

"No!" It was almost a shout, for all that it was strangled with a desperation Clint couldn't quite place. Clint paused and looked at Barnes's face. His brow was furrowed and he had the pinched look of someone in pain. 

"Don't -I. Don't come closer. I…" Barnes trailed off, before taking a deep breath. "We're not soulmates."

That didn't make any sense. Clint had felt it. He could still feel the way tingling fire had danced over his words. 

"No, look." Clint twisted, pulled his bow up and to the side, leaving his words exposed. He looked up at Barnes expectantly. Barnes looked like he'd seen a ghost. 

"You didn't say my words. Someone else said them a long time ago."

Clint must have looked as confused as he felt. Very slowly and very deliberately, Barnes used his metal fingers to tug up his sleeve and offered the pale skin inside his forearm to Clint. The words stood out starkly. Clint thought he might throw up.

"But I felt them." Clint sounded weak even to his own ears, but it didn't make sense. It didn't make sense. It _didn't._ He didn't want this to make sense. 

"I'm sorry."

Clint looked up and saw Barnes's face. It was so full of sorrow and pity, his eyes shining, and Clint was suddenly cold with a distant fury. His voice was laced with venom when he spoke.

"Why are you here?"

Barnes jerked at Clint's change in tone but didn't respond.

"Why did you come here? Why did you come looking for me? Tell me." Clint's voice broke slightly and he hated himself for it.

Barnes hesitated for a moment longer. Clint felt his body flex with a dangerous impatience. Barnes shut his eyes, brow pinched. 

"The Widow. I am looking for the Black Widow."

Clint made a hysterical sound that might have been a laugh, or a sob. The Winter Soldier stepped towards him. Clint clung to his bow like a lifeline.

"Don't," Clint started. He didn't know what the rest of that sentence was. He looked around desperately and saw the fire exit. 

Clint fled. 

***

Of course he was a _spare_. It made perfect fucking sense that fate would give him words only to rub his face in how much he wasn't needed by giving a soulmate who'd already matched for real.

And Christ, Clint knew he wasn't worth much to anyone; his whole life had been just one long list of reasons why people shouldn't waste their time, but that was why this had mattered. He knew it was stupid. He knew fate didn't give guarantees, that soulmates were just a pretty good shot. 

And that was Clint all over, wasn't it? A pretty good shot, and not much else. He knew he didn't have a lot of marketable skills for a relationship. So yeah, he might have latched onto the idea that someone was gonna be his and he was gonna be someone's. That he'd have a place to belong, with someone who wouldn't just push him aside. Clint knew it wasn't going to be a fairy tale, people like him didn't get fairy tales, but to hear those words, _his words_ , words that have been etched into his skin for over fifteen years, only to be told that he wasn't it. That he was nothing. Fate had deemed him unworthy. Fuck, it felt like his chest was trying to fold in on itself. 

Clint stopped moving. He'd started evasive manoeuvres without really thinking about it, and he certainly wasn't where he wanted to be. He looked around. He didn't feel like anyone was following him, but if the Winter Soldier was going to stealthily track him, Clint knew he couldn't do a lot about it. The Winter fucking Soldier. _Fuck._

Clint stared at nothing and felt fury building up like bile. It was so catastrophically unfair. Clint was vaguely aware that his jaw was clenched tight and his whole body was vibrating and suddenly, like a bow string, he snapped. His fist flew forward and he punched the wall. He yelled because he was angry, and because it hurt like hell, and just as he pulled his fist back to do it again, a sob caught in his throat instead. 

Clint froze, then slumped forward, head leaning against the bricks, breathing hard. Tears prickled hotly at his eyes, blurring his vision. He rubbed them away, irritated. He didn't want to cry. He took a shaky breath and glanced down. His hand was throbbing, the knuckle of his ring finger was bleeding. It was definitely going to bruise. His shoulder was complaining, and Clint guessed he must have punched using circus instincts if his technique was bad enough to jar his shoulder. 

He took a deep breath, focusing on the damp brickwork against his forehead. The cold night air licked his bare arms and some distant part of his brain supplied that he'd left his jacket at the range. He straightened up. Clint started walking home, trying not to think about how heavy the emptiness inside him felt. 

***

Clint didn't go home.

He showed up at Natasha's, who looked him over before directing him to the couch. She gave him two shots of vodka and waited while he drank them before looking at him expectantly. 

Clint started talking and felt everything inside him crumble away. He told Nat all of it as she softly cleaned and wrapped his knuckles. He clenched his jaw and swallowed back tears, pretending it was from the pain of a tight wrap over bruised skin. Nat stayed quiet, and let him pretend that it was her hands making him cry.

Clint shut his eyes and the memory of Barnes standing at the door of Clint's favourite range flooded over him. A small hurt noise pushed up through the back of his throat. 

Natasha's fingers paused where they had been massaging his palm. Clint knew she was asking. He opened his eyes and looked at her.

"He's so beautiful, Nat. It's just-" Clint swallowed thickly, "-did he have to be perfect? It's insult to injury, you know? If I can't have my soulmate, he could at least have a face like an ass."

Clint laughed, a little wetly, and Natasha's lips twitched into a small sympathetic smile. She didn't give pointless platitudes, and Clint was glad of it. He knew she would tell him what he needed to know. Something clenched deep in his chest and that feeling of rejection flooded back through his entire body, squeezing everything else from him. Clint felt tears spilling onto his face, but he was too focused on the cold nausea to really pay them attention. 

"I just wanted to be someone's." His voice was quiet, strangled through the tears, but more than that, full of a desperate honesty he hadn't really meant to share with anyone. Natasha stiffened minutely and he looked up at her. Something crossed over her face, a complicated look that Clint barely had time to register before it was gone. She took his face in her small hands, brushing her thumbs over his tear tracks and pressed a kiss to his forehead. His eyes fluttered shut and he felt choked at the tenderness. 

"You are not all alone in the world, Hawk."

He thought about her then, about her body with scars, but no words. He thought maybe, they could be alone together, and he couldn't entirely place why, but the thought stirred a wrongness in him, that tightened his in lungs until everything was on fire. Instead of breathing, he cried. 

Natasha pulled him close and he stained her with his sadness. Clint cried until his throat was raw with it, until his face was itching hot with dried salt, until his head felt heavy with it. He cried until his body ran out of everything, until he had nothing left to give, until he was left with small hiccuping breaths and sniffles. He felt like his insides had been pulled out of him. He felt hollowed out.

They sat in the quiet with nothing but each others' breathing for a long while.

"Do you know the worst thing?" Clint picked at the seam of Nat's jeans. Nat moved the bottle out the way, evidently having decided that whatever else Clint was feeling tonight, drunk wasn't going to be on the list. Clint glanced up at her face. She looked back at him, waiting for him to continue. "He wasn't even there for me. He was looking for you. Not even the person who says my words was looking for me."

Clint scoffed, a sad little noise that mostly made him feel worse. Natasha hummed softly. Clint felt wrung out. His ribs ached and his lungs were sore like he'd been in a fight that he had no chance of winning. His heart fucking hurt. He pressed his face into the gap between Natasha's shoulder and the top of the couch. He counted his breaths while tears leaked from his eyes, soaking fresh dark circles into the fabric. 

Natasha dragged her fingers through his hair, nails softly scratching over his scalp. He let himself be soothed by her touch. He felt heavy with exhaustion. 

"Come on Little Bird," she spoke in soft Russian. "It'll be better in the morning."

Clint let himself be pulled off the couch, and into her bed; he let her help him strip down and ease his hearing aids out. He felt the duvet being pulled up over him, and then her warm body pressed against his back. They'd shared space like this a lot over the years, but Clint wasn't sure he'd ever been as grateful for her presence as he was right now. Clint felt her fingers twining together with his, just as sleep finally pulled him under. 

***

Clint woke slowly. His head was woollen, his mouth was dry and his bones were weighed down with a sadness so heavy he didn't think he would ever move again. He was alone in the bed and he kept his eyes shut as the previous night washed over him. He felt a deep grief catch in his throat. He took a breath through his nose. 

The world wobbled oddly and Clint cracked open an eye to see Natasha, legs stretched out from her chair, jiggling the mattress with her feet. He tried to glare at her, but she was grinning at him and despite himself, he huffed a soft laugh. She signed that there was water and nodded to the bedside. Clint pulled himself up against the headboard. He took the glass and gulped down half before slipping his ears in. He took another long drink before setting the glass down. Natasha was already dressed, book perched on the arm of her chair.

"There's coffee too." Natasha said, nodding to the other bedside. There was a mug of coffee with a coaster placed on top of it. Clint gasped in mock outrage. 

"Did you do this so I wouldn't smell the coffee?" He glared at her suspiciously. 

She nudged his foot with hers and shot him a coy smile. "How else would I get you to drink water?" 

Clint kicked at her foot half heartedly. He pulled the mug in and nudged the coaster from the top. He let the strong scent of coffee waft over him. Nat always made him coffee with a little cinnamon and the familiarity of it settled something in him, right as something else broke. He closed his eyes against the threatening sting of more tears. Fuck, he was still so drained. 

Natasha said nothing. Clint sipped his coffee gratefully. Natasha watched him carefully. 

"We've got a job." 

He looked up at her over his mug. Her eyes cut to the far side of the room. His followed. There were two bags, packed and looking mission ready. She had been busy. 

"There's something I need to tell you first." There was an uncertainty in her voice that made him look up. She looked tired in a way she rarely had. Clint knew Natasha could skip a night or two without it showing on her face, but here, even freshly showered, she looked exhausted. 

He shuffled up the bed, crossing his legs under the blanket, and held the mug to his chest. She searched his face for something, traced over the planes of it like she was memorising it. She inhaled deeply, held it for a moment and then exhaled. Her eyes were locked on Clint's. 

"You said my words."

Clint's stomach dropped, cold spreading out from his gut. His heart started pounding and it made his whole chest throb painfully. 

"Nat, that's not funny."

"I'm not laughing. You said my words."

Clint stared at her. He didn't know what game she was playing, but he thought this might have been the cruelest way to do it. It didn't even make sense. Natasha might not be a blank, but she didn't have words.

"Nat, you don't- they took-" Clint stopped himself. He clenched his jaw and looked into his mug.

" _Clint_." Natasha's voice brought his eyes up to meet hers. She was looking at him with something close to desperation. Clint shook his head minutely. She spoke again, more determined.

"You said my words. In Budapest. The Red Room took my words, but I knew them before they bloomed, before they settled, before anyone else. I always knew them, and you said mine. I felt you say them."

"What did I say?" Clint's voice was barely a whisper.

Natasha smiled, small, but real. "You told me, I deserved a choice." 

Clint knew it was right before she said it. Felt the words sitting on his tongue, the memory of looking at her and seeing someone who needed something like a friend. His heart hurt. They'd met so long ago. He'd thought he'd known her. They'd talked about her words. She'd never even hinted.

"Why would you not tell me?" He didn't mean for it to come out so thin.

She tilted her head and looked exasperated. "Clint, we're _spies_."

He felt his face harden. "Nat, we're _friends_."

She hesitated. "You're right. I'm sorry." Natasha chewed on her lip. "I didn't say your words, and you were already offering me so much. I didn't- I didn't want to complicate your bond with a mismatch."

He looked at her, and she opened herself up to him, let him see her. He saw her fear and her guilt, and he knew she was making an offering. He knew she was trying to make amends. 

"You didn't say mine." He hadn't meant to sound so sad, but it was Nat. The first time he'd seen her had been through a sniper scope; she'd looked directly down his sightline, raised her eyebrows like a dare and disappeared before he could push the trigger. She'd been special from the start. She was looking at him, waiting.

He looked at her and nodded. Her body relaxed minutely. Clint took a breath. 

"So I guess we're fucked together?" He gave her a half smile and she returned it. 

"Something like that," said Natasha. Her brows pinched together, a facsimile of a frown clouding her features.

Clint spread his hands wide, gave the best grin he could muster and said, "What else is new?" 

She laughed, and Clint felt a little less broken for seeing it. He took an obnoxiously loud slurp of his coffee.

"So, what happens now?"

She smiled at him in a way that made her look more fox than person. Her eyes shone.

"Now we have a job."

***

"Nat," Clint called into the warehouse, "Want to explain what _the fuck_ you're playing at?"

"It's research. You need to be here." She sounded stern, but her lips quirked in a half smile. She kept her eyes forward along with her gun. Clint gripped his bow a little tighter. He did not feel like smiling.

"We really gotta stop meeting like this," Barnes said dryly. He had a knife in one hand and a gun in the other. 

Barnes looked like he hadn't slept much. Clint felt his heart squeeze at the thought. He kept his bow trained on him.

"You shot me." Natasha looked at Barnes. A brief look of guilt crossed his face before one of resignation took its place. 

"Yet here you are," he replied deadpan. "If you're just here to interrupt my sleep and complain about not being dead, I should let you know, I don't offer refunds."

Clint felt a little like the kid who wasn't in on the joke, and he didn't much like it. Being so close to Barnes made his stomach churn with feelings he didn't want to look too closely at. He could sense them rising up like nausea, building up in the back of his throat until he couldn't hold them back anymore.

"You said my words." Clint hated how dejected he sounded. He felt his throat tighten when he thought about the previous night. He snapped his mouth shut and bit at his bottom lip for good measure.

Barnes eyed him carefully, gaze flicking between him and Natasha. He exhaled like he'd made a decision.

"I did, but _she_ said mine." Barnes jerked his chin at Natasha. Clint knew his mouth fell open in shock, but he didn't have the processing power to close it. His head snapped around to look at Natasha. 

She didn't look surprised, in fact she looked like this had confirmed a theory. She looked like this had been the final piece of a particularly complicated jigsaw. She wasn't denying it. 

"Did you know?" Bucky asked Natasha.

"I suspected." Natasha paused. "Clint said mine."

Barnes inhaled sharply, then looked to Clint, brow furrowed. 

"Well shit," Barnes drawled, and Clint found himself very much echoing that sentiment. 

Natasha looked between them. "I don't think we're mismatches. I think we all belong to each other. Fate didn't leave us, it pulled us together however it could."

Barnes tipped his head back and groaned loudly at the ceiling. He sheathed his knife and holstered his gun, before sighing deeply. 

"It's never fuckin' straight forward." He scrubbed a hand over his face, then eyed Clint and Natasha through his fingers. "If you can both put the weapons down and look a bit less like mercs-for-hire, there's a Turkish cafe that does a decent breakfast, and frankly, I'm not having this conversation on an empty stomach."

***

Natasha produced a soft looking sweatshirt from somewhere, and it made her outfit perfectly straddle the line between lounge wear and hipster fashion. Barnes mumbled something incoherent, and shoved Clint's jacket from the range into his hands before walking away, so Clint put it on over his tac gear. Natasha's face told him was just barely passable. 

The Turkish place was filled with unusual trinkets and a variety of unorthodox interior design choices, but it had great sight lines, solid wooden furniture that could be utilised as cover or weapons, and it smelled like fresh bread and spiced meats. 

Clint knew him and Nat were each carrying enough concealed weapons to see them through a small insurrection, and he'd no doubt Barnes was the same. A bored waiter took their order and supplied their table with bread and a small plate of dips. The bread was still warm and Clint was suddenly ravenous. 

They'd finished about half the bread when their food arrived and they continued to eat in silence. It was comfortable in a way Clint hadn't anticipated. He sprawled further out over the bench and felt some of the tension in his shoulders lifting away. Natasha was in a patch of sunshine like a cat, sipping on her sweet tea. She caught him looking and the corners of her mouth pulled up almost imperceptibly. She looked content.

Barnes ordered them a mixed platter of baklava. He'd placed a few onto his plate and Clint leaned forward, past the platter and snagged one from Barnes's plate. Barnes blinked in surprise and Clint grinned, flicking it into the air to catch it in his mouth. Metal fingers closed around the treat, snatching it out of the air. Natasha snorted a laugh over her glass. Barnes conjured a knife from somewhere and cut the already tiny pastry into three pieces. He smirked at Clint and offered him a piece from the point of his knife. Clint's stomach fluttered pleasantly as he took it, and he watched Barnes offer Natasha the same. She shook her head, but took it anyway. 

"So," Barnes started, "Does this count as a first date?"

Natasha nudged Clint's foot. He smiled at her and nudged her back. Natasha looked at Barnes, giving him a small smile. 

"Yeah," she said, "I think it just might."

**Author's Note:**

> My AU was soulmates, and my trope was misunderstandings. I hope you enjoyed it :)
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](https://cruciatusforeplay.tumblr.com/) if you wanna come say hi!


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